


Toy Soldiers

by just_a_velleity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kid!Lock, Other, mute!Sherlock, primary school AU, somewhat gratuitously fluffy, tw for references to abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_velleity/pseuds/just_a_velleity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My first-ever fic, mute!lock inspired by Lakeore's Notes in the Tip Jar http://archiveofourown.org/works/616775</p><p>Not britpicked yet, much appreciate you catching any mistakes.</p><p>tumblr: just-a-velleity.tumblr.com</p></blockquote>





	Toy Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Notes in the Tip Jar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/616775) by [Toroto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toroto/pseuds/Toroto). 



It was Sherlock’s second first day of primary.

\---

The first first day had involved a stubborn, glowering Sherlock and an imposing boarding school with a placard that read “Blackwater’s Academy for Sensorily Impaired Children”.

Sherlock had been mute since the day he was born. In fact, the Holmeses had initially worried about mental impairments when he turned two having failed to speak a word. Their worries turned out to be unfounded. Sherlock learned to read not long after his second birthday and was raiding his father’s library by four. He was plain and simple mute, nothing to be done about it, so they sent him to a school where they felt he’d fit in better.

Sherlock Holmes was never going to fit in.

\---

Sherlock had returned home for the Christmas holidays and launched indignantly into signing something quickly enough that even Mycroft couldn’t make it out. Eventually a very frustrated Sherlock had been cajoled into writing it down, filled with an array of curses rather impressive for a six-year-old to have acquired. It was something to the effect that the teachers were unforgivably stupid and pitying to the students, and Sherlock had adamantly refused to go back, so that was that.

So Sherlock ended up standing outside the local public school for his second first day of primary, clutching a book that was nearly as big as he was. As the other children tumbled in the yard or tossed dripping snowballs, Sherlock remained still as glass, though his mind was running on hyperdrive.

The little blond girl in pink? Parents divorcing, her pigtails were clearly self-done.

Boy scuffing his shoes on the steps? Wealthy but trying not to appear so; those shoes were far too expensive for a school like this.

Playground monitor? Having an affair. No, scratch that, waiting for bad news, twisting her wedding ring , but it was clearly well-loved.

Years of being unable to speak had left these shards of other people’s lives to be his mind’s soundtrack.

\---

Sherlock frustrated his kindly teacher to no end with his refusal to participate in any sort of game or to mime along to the actions of the trifling songs they sang. He had far better things to do; namely, the biology textbook he was currently working his way through. He had his lessons completed before the teacher finished explaining them, and after the incident involving his chemistry set and the ginger curls of the girl who sat in front of him, his teacher decided it would be best to call Sherlock’s parents in.

\---

Sherlock sat down against the door of the classroom in a huff, angry that they hadn’t let him sit in. He was perfectly capable of speech comprehension even if he couldn’t produce it himself, and he had a far better grasp on his own capabilities than anyone else, thank you very much. He wrapped the coat that he had stolen from Mycroft around him, muttering about the long coat he wanted so badly even if Mother refused. She had said he’d grow out of it within the month the way he was growing. They had better hurry up with this inane meeting already; his experiment was most time-sensitive.

Sherlock’s experiment was going to have to be redone. The conference lasted upwards of an hour and ended with the decision that he would be moved up to Year 3, where he would still be with children in his age range but might be more intellectually stimulated. That was rubbish, Sherlock knew. The only thing remotely intellectual about primary was the library, and even that was questionable. At least they didn’t sing in the third form.

They called Mycroft down from the secondary school to bring Sherlock to his new class when he refused to let himself be escorted by his parents. Mycroft was quite peeved at being pulled away from his Bio partner Nancy, but he softened a little when he saw Sherlock looking so very small.  Knowing a bit more about primary-school social dynamics than most teachers, Mycroft smartly introduced Sherlock as a new student without informing them of his age. He was tall enough, after all, to pass for at least eight, and had a writing style more appropriate to a college professor.

Sherlock’s new classroom was just as dull as expected, all bright colors and rounded edges. He was given a proper desk at last, so that was some small improvement.

The teacher was saccharine-dripping sweet, but she always gave them a play break after lunch. Sherlock gravitated immediately towards the toy soldiers. If they wouldn’t let him have his chemistry set, this would have to do. His chess-trained mind was a natural for tactical formations and battle plans, and he began to spend all of playtime quietly immersed in small Asian land wars. They were more interesting than his classmates, after all. He’d had them pegged within a week and quickly grown bored with that game, so the little plastic men became his playmates.

\---

A few weeks later, Sherlock sat at his desk, working his way through the Times he’d taken off his father’s desk and blissfully ignoring Miss Ansley and her multiplication tables. The crime section was disappointingly boring, but at least there was a mildly interesting diplomatic scandal involving a lost plane. He’d just begun tearing apart the reporter’s elementary logic process when he sensed that something was off and glanced up, scanning the room. There was a boy standing resolutely at the front of the room, shoulders set and eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Sherlock retreated briefly into his mind palace to clear a space for this new student. He hadn’t done this at first, but found it had become bothersome not to know his classmates’ names when they were forced to work in groups.

 _Cream jumper, blond hair, clearly used to the whole new-student routine enough to dread it, so moved often. Military parents? Possible but unlikely, he’d have been more fastidiously polite. Northampton Saints sticker on his notebook_ _—_ _rugby fan, okay._ Enough information for a basic profile, case closed.

“Class, this is John Watson. He’s just moved to London, so please make an effort to make him feel at home. John, is there anything you’d like to tell us about yourself?”

“Thanks, no. I’m John,” the boy said, and gave a reluctant wave before going to sit down at the only empty desk, which happened to be located across from  Sherlock. He pushed a stack of Sherlock’s papers away and Sherlock heaved an annoyed sigh. The lack of workspace was going to be inconvenient, but he supposed there wasn’t anything to be done. Adaptation was proving to be a theme of his primary school career, and he wasn’t particularly happy about it.

\---

When Sherlock’s public school adventures didn’t result in any evidence of him having acquired friends, Sherlock’s mother began to worry.

“Darling, why don’t you invite one of your new classmates over for tea one day?”

“Dull. Busy.” Sherlock signed one-handed, the other arm elbow-deep in something that looked vaguely like an ice bath. If your ice bath just happened to be an alarming shade of purple.

She grew rather insistent, though, and kept pestering Sherlock during his experiments, so he finally relented.

_Mother wants me to have a playmate for reasons unknown. Come for tea tomorrow afternoon?_

Sherlock shoved  the note across the desk to John, the classmate he had decided was likely the least idiotic. He was quiet, at least, and, based on his not-so-subdued sighs , shared Sherlock’s distaste for the horrid Dick-and-Jane books the teacher was so fond of.

John looked suspicious for a moment, but shrugged and scribbled something on the note.

_Sure, why not?_

That task taken care of, Sherlock returned to his book.

\---

The next day, Sherlock was sprinting down the hallway, eager to get back to the cultures he had growing. They were so aggravatingly _slow_. All of a sudden there was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around to see a very out-of-breath John.

“Sherlock…. Hey…. You wanted me over for tea today?” he managed to say between breaths.

Oh, right. The “social interaction” requirement his mother had imposed. Inconvenient, that.

Sherlock gestured for John to join him, making an adjustment to his pace so John could keep up. It wouldn’t really do to lose him.

When the two boys arrived at Sherlock’s house, his mother absolutely fawned over John.

“Oh, aren’t you such a polite little boy! Would you like a cup of tea?”

John accepted the tea as Sherlock steered him out of the room. If he was going to be forced to have playmates, it would be on his terms. Sherlock very nearly dragged John up to his room in his attempt to get away from his mother, but John stopped stock-still once they got to the doorway.

“This is … your room?”

The dark wood panels, bookshelf wall, and neutral colors weren’t exactly a typical of a six-year-old’s room, but then again, Sherlock was far from typical.

Sherlock scribbled a note in messy blue handwriting on a legal pad, which he had decided would be the most efficient means of communication.

_Yes. Do you know how to play chess?_

John did, so they sat down to the carved-wood set Sherlock had inherited from his grandfather. Sherlock had expected a tossaway game, but was pleasantly surprised by John’s skill. He had clearly been taught by someone talented. Of course, he still made novice mistakes and Sherlock won definitively, but he appreciated the opportunity for a new opponent. Mycroft was dangerously adept, but Sherlock had gotten used to his gives and Mycroft wasn’t exactly keen on playing games with his kid brother anymore. John offered a new and intriguing puzzle to work.

“You know, it is considered commonly polite not to crushingly defeat someone when you’re this much better than them,” John said after his third loss in a row.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow with the sort of look that radiated _what for?_

John’s only response was a bemused stare.

\---

Later that week, Sherlock was deep into an invasion of Azerbaijan when John sat down cheerily and picked up a few men.

“John. That is my aerial invasion force,” he signed out of habit before letting his hands fall. Of course John couldn’t understand him. God, this was frustrating.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock fixed John with his well-honed death glare, but John simply stared right back with those steely blue eyes, a sarcastic look on his face. Sherlock didn’t do “friends”. He thought that much was clear,but this boy was proving to be more stubborn than most.

Sherlock eventually conceded and let John play with some of the soldiers. After all, the Mongolian base was hardly necessary anymore.

John’s battles were considerably more animated than Sherlock’s, complete with sound effects for the bombers. Sherlock tuned him out and went back to arranging the Azerbaijani ground force for the imminent invasion. He looked up a few minutes later in search of a transport vehicle to see John wrapping a bit of tissue around one of his men. Sherlock fixed him with a quizzical stare.

 “He’s got a broken arm.”

Sherlock shoved a scrap of paper over impatiently.

_He’s a casualty, John. That’s how war works._

“Still.”

\---

Sherlock had successfully obtained a table all to himself at lunch in the back corner, where he could make his observations in peace without being bothered by the other children. What with his imposing air and the books he read, which had titles like “A Study of 19th-Century Serial Murder Cases in Ireland”, keeping other people from sitting there wasn’t ever a problem

Until then.

“Hey Sherlock, what’ve you got there?” John asked amiably as he sat down.

Sherlock lifted his book as a reply, a bit flustered at having his peace interrupted.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

He shook his head. Eating was an inconvenience, something he did only when strictly necessary.

Taking that as some sort of permission, John reached for Sherlock’s lunch sack and rummaged around, pulling out the sandwich and biting into it hungrily.

\---

John became a regularity for Sherlock at school, showing up time after time to stage mock battles or eat his food. At first Sherlock would shift away from where John was crashing planes together or dig his nose deeper into his book to avoid John’s friendly chatter, but eventually he realized this boy just wasn’t going to give up. He ended up settling for a sort of quiet togetherness. John realized that Sherlock disliked conversation unless it was for a purpose and refrained from asking questions except when necessary, and Sherlock came to expect John’s dry mutterings in class. They even made him laugh sometimes.

Once, when they returned from lunch, crumbs from Sherlock’s biscuits stuck to John’s jumper, John went to play checkers with Sarah, leaving Sherlock alone with his little molded soldiers.  Sherlock found himself increasingly agitated. He would turn to hand over his “casualties” to John for repair, or just to check that he was still there, and find himself looking at nothing. Sherlock hated to have his routines disrupted, but this one was especially irritating. He had grown used to John’s steady presence. What was he doing playing a game as trivial as checkers, and with _that_ girl?

\---

Luckily, it was only the once that John attempted that. After Sherlock spent the rest of that day staring daggers at the back of his head, he returned to their little war games. As time went on, the battles became more and more intertwined, with Sherlock drawing up the invasion plans in his mind and sketching them out for John, who was happy to do the actual battle side of things, providing sound effects and bandaging the “wounded” with paper and Scotch tape.

\---

They were preparing for a surprise Siberian attack when John pushed up his jumper sleeves, revealing yellow-green bruises on his forearms. Why would John have bruises? The only sport he enjoyed was rugby and it was hardly the season for that in the middle of February.

Suddenly, the lock in Sherlock’s mind clicked into place. Oh! Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ How couldn’t he have noticed before? The slight bags under John’s eyes, the way he ravenously devoured Sherlock’s untouched lunches, the unexplained middle-of-the-term move; John’s home was clearly unstable. Sherlock felt an odd tug in his chest, a desire to fix this dented tin soldier of a boy, and it baffled him. He didn’t care a whit about the teachers who were clearly having affairs or Mycroft’s not-so-secret crush on Nancy in Year 9, so why John? This was irrational, and irrational was Sherlock’s pet peeve. A six-year-old, however clever, wasn’t going to be able to repair a broken family, so why did it matter? Sentiment was pointless if nothing could be done about it—Sherlock had decided that long ago. For some unknown reason, he had let John become an exception. He almost reached out with one long, pale musician’s finger to touch John’s arm but caught himself in time and reached for his preferred general instead.

\---

This revelation had shaken Sherlock deeply, and it started to affect his work. Timers went ignored, books sat unopened on his nightstand. After the third shattered test tube, he decided something had to be done.

His violin had been a present from his parents for his 4th birthday, a little half-size thing that produced gorgeous sound despite its size. It had become the closest thing Sherlock had to a partner in his research; he found playing cleared his mind for deduction better than anything else.

He chose a piece he knew well from his mind palace, one with rapid, urgent runs and elegant flourishes, and set to work.

_John_

_Bruises_

_Fall? No, no point in denying the truth, it was violence._

_Mother? Statistically unlikely, observationally denied—John spoke adoringly of his mother and he wasn’t the Stockholm syndrome type._

_—_ possibility eliminated, remove from list _—_

_Sibling?  John had an older sister, addictive predispositions—alcoholic rage? Possible. No, wait. Sister had a new girlfriend, John had stopped complaining about Harry’s lonely whingings._

—delete possibility—

_Father? File near empty. Distant but not demonstrably violent based on past observations. Oh! Dog tags on the silver chain John always wore- ex-military, PTSD possible, PTSD can induce violence._

—most likely—

Mystery solved, Sherlock thought he would be able to go back to work. He hadn’t finished the piece and never wanted to leave something half done, so he kept playing. The music, though, was rife with mistakes—a missed note, an uncounted rest. What was going on? Sherlock couldn’t shake the knot from the base of his stomach. He felt so _useless._ He needed to dosomething concrete, but what? Police, social services? All incompetently run, but at least there was a chance. He resolved to confront John about it the next day.

\---

Sherlock tugged impatiently on John’s shirtsleeve as they waited in line for the gym lockers to be opened. He’d always worked around his speech issue before, but at this moment he wanted to shout at the universe that it wasn’t fair. Why had he left the notebook in his coat pocket? All the trivial things and snide comments he’d written to John in there, and then he forgets when it’s the most crucial?

John gave him a questioning look.

“What, Sherlock?”

He still hadn’t quite got used to Sherlock’s inability to respond without paper and pen.

“Oh God, right, sorry. Just tell me once we’re finished with gym, alright?”

Gym. Hateful, hateful gym with its squeaking floors and its frequently replaced teachers who somehow always managed to be overweight. The irony was palpable.

They were playing rugby, of all things. Sherlock was rubbish at rugby, all bony elbows and long legs. He hadn’t quite grown into them yet and was always curling up into himself as if he wanted to be smaller. For rugby’s purposes, Sherlock just tried to stay out of the way.

John, however, got very into his favorite sport, tackling the other boys with a joyful vigor. Sherlock watched in amazement as this boy, who had clearly suffered through unimaginable things, played just like all of the other eight-year-olds. His ability to put on a face was unparalleled; he’d be terrific undercover, Sherlock thought absentmindedly.

Sherlock was pulled sharply out of his imaginings when John, exerted from all the running, took off his uniform gym jumper to reveal the short sleeves underneath. Sherlock searched his arms for bruises, but there were none.  Something swelled in his chest, like the feeling when he made a critical breakthrough, but better. It filled him up and gave him an inexplicable impulse to hug something.

Sherlock quickly found out that his deductions were not the most timely of things when he was unceremoniously knocked to the floor by the rugby ball.

\---

When he came to, the gym teacher was standing over him, a look of feigned concern of his face.

“You alright, kid?”

Sherlock managed a nod before John interrupted.

“Let me take him up to the infirmary.”

Sherlock insisted on stopping by the classroom to grab his notebook first. He wasn’t going any longer without words.

_Your arms._

John looked perplexed for a minute, but Sherlock could pinpoint the exact moment realization dawned.

“You noticed?”

_I just figured it out. I had to help you._

“Oh, Sherlock. What on earth were you going to do about it?”

_Hadn’t quite gotten to that part yet. Police, probably._

“No need for that now. My mum finally divorced the no-good jerk.”

Sherlock answered that one with a smile.

“Yeah, I finally had the guts to tell her what was happening and it was quick as that.”

John. Oh, brave John. Sherlock let out a sigh that he hadn’t even realized was building up, and felt a sense of relief he hadn’t felt since seeing those bruises.

_Come for tea this afternoon? Will attempt to ward off Mother, promise._

John chuckled and nodded.

\---

They made their way toward Sherlock’s house in contented silence. John shot Sherlock a sarcastic look when he turned Mycroft’s too-big coat up against the wind.

“Fancy yourself some kind of spy?”

Sherlock’s glance said _shut up_ in a way more direct than any words could have.

They walked along peacefully after that until Sherlock felt a tap on his shoulder. John began making exaggerated motions with his arms, and Sherlock was momentarily baffled until he recognized the letter F. John was trying to sign.

His temper flared. John _knew_ he could understand speech, and it made Sherlock so angry when people assumed that his muteness meant he was also deaf. Ignorance was going to be the downfall of humanity, he was sure of it. John had seemed above that, though.

 _Oh!_ Sentiment. It struck Sherlock all at once. John was trying to be like him, show him he wasn’t alone. Sherlock softened as he watched John finish the message.

_F-R-I-A-N-D-S_

Sherlock’s throat tightened as he realized what the word was, and switching the A for the E (they _were_ similar) was so very _John_ that it threatened to overwhelm him.

The first real smile Sherlock Holmes had smiled in six years of life was for John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> My first-ever fic, mute!lock inspired by Lakeore's Notes in the Tip Jar http://archiveofourown.org/works/616775
> 
> Not britpicked yet, much appreciate you catching any mistakes.
> 
> tumblr: just-a-velleity.tumblr.com


End file.
